


keep me around

by nevergreen



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Romance, performance anxiety, they're so full of love it physically hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29074047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevergreen/pseuds/nevergreen
Summary: Brett and Eddy feel anxious before their stream of Sibelius concerto, so they do the thing people usually do when they're anxious: they proceed to be a mess. And then, a bit less of a mess - together.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 10
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/twosetforti), come say hi

Every night before this one, they’ve been clinging to each other to calm down whatever has been ravaging them inside; this night, however, it’s the lull before the storm.  
They finish practicing early; Eddy feels desperate to cling on every extra hour but whatever his brain tells him, he knows better. Brett knows better, too, so he engages him with the small nothings for the whole day, trying to keep himself engaged as well; the restless mind is full of doubts, and doubts are worrying, and worry is mistakes and jitters. 

They lie on Brett’s bed, a mess of limbs and blankets; Brett’s head on Eddy’s chest and he goes through every single ‘what if’ they both said over the week. Eddy finds one of his hands with his own, slowly circles over the wrist with a thumb, and Brett shifts and moves closer. He’s warm to touch and smells like lavender soap and fresh clothes; a faint scent of perfume clinging to his hair, still slightly wet after the shower. 

“Electricity cuts off. The internet dies. You snap a string. I snap a string. Our neighbors call the police.” He stops to catch his breath. “No one comes. A finger cut. A memory slip. Actually, a shitload of memory slips. Shaky bow! Is that all?”

“I think these are the worst ones,” Eddy mumbles and his palm slides into Brett’s. They touch each other’s fingertips and Eddy knows they think the same.

“Think you can survive them?” Brett asks, casually, like he’s not nervous at all; in fact, Eddy knows, they’re both scared shitless. Of being not enough, no matter how pointless it sounds; of fucking up badly, whatever it means. He’s not that sure himself, but he knows this monster way too well. The ever-growing performance anxiety, that is; it robs you of logic and critical thinking, it makes you whimper at the face of fears that are surreal and hazy.

“Sibelius, my man,” Eddy sighs somewhere in Brett’s hair instead of answering. “Don’t wanna taint you, bro.”

He feels Brett entwining their fingers, and gripping, hard; his calloused fingertips press into Eddy’s hand. He doesn’t say anything, he rarely does; Eddy knows the little glossary of their touches by heart. And he’s really grateful for this one.

For a while, they’re both silent; then Brett moves and drags himself up, his head is on the pillow now, so he presses his nose into Eddy’s cheek and lets out a small sigh. Eddy slides his hands over Brett’s waist – one above the blanket, one underneath, gliding along the smooth, warm curve of his back – and turns his head, and when their lips meet, the anxiety befogging Eddy’s mind settles down, little by little. 

It’s a careful and grounding touch; Eddy kisses the corners of Brett’s mouth first, then the outline of his lips. _Everything is going to be alright_ , that’s what it means.  
“Make a guess,” Brett yawns into a kiss and breaks it. “How many people are going to come?”

“I don’t know, man. Fifty thousand?" That's a wild guess, and they both are taken aback a bit by how bold it sounds. "Nah, should be more. Seventy?” and Brett actually looks bewildered by his own guess. “Nah, no way.”  
“I think it might be even more,” Eddy says, slowly, and it occurs to him in an instant, the possibility that is so real. “One hundred, maybe?”  
In the darkness of the room he guesses Brett’s facial expression changing rather than sees it; Brett chuckles and sounds so very amused. “If there are 100K for real, what are you going to do?  
“Dunno, man,” Eddy shrugs, and his insides are a tight coil waiting to spring, but it’s not his usual anxiety, no more; there’s something else, something powerful that’s going to charge his heart and mind and fingers and pour out in the melody so beautiful.  
If only he lets it. If only they will be able to let it go.  
So he says, trying to sound careless:  
“Scream, I guess.”

“It’s in the plan,” Brett agrees and leans in to get one more kiss, and this one is less tender, and longer, and Brett bites him before drawing away.  
“And we're going to drop lots of stuff,” Eddy continues, licking the lip bitten, sliding the second arm under the blanket, and Brett’s skin scorches his fingertips. “All the stuff.”  
“All the stuff,” Brett throws away the blanket so Eddy could properly get his hands on him. “And it’s gonna be fucking okay.”

It’s going to be, and there will be screams and slips and jitters, and they may die inside a thousand times, being only ones noticing the smallest stuff.  
_And so what_ , Eddy tells himself, and squeezes his eyes shut till it’s almost painful. 

This time, he actually believes it.


	2. Chapter 2

When the stream is off, they both look at the screen for a while more.

They both feel awestruck and drained, exhausted almost; but that’s the kind of exhaustion that comes to you after doing a job that is both demanding and rewards you good; Brett feels it settling in his bones little by little. All the fears and sparks of excitement, and jitters and expectations - they manage to excel some and fall short of others – they all are still here, too; and now, when the camera is off, it’s surprisingly hard to hold back. 

The room suddenly seems too small for them, just like Brett’s chest is too tight for his heart pounding violently, still; but it settles down, with every breath he takes, little by little. Eddy, on the other hand, looks completely different. His eyes are overflowing with the grand variety of emotions, confused and joyous; but he’s not quite himself, not back to it, yet. Brett sees it under his surface, just exactly how overwhelmed he is; how he lacks words and things to say now, when everything he could convey it with went for the audience, for being grateful and making sure they wrap it up nicely; and so there’s only one word he has for himself.

“Fuck,” voices he out, for him and Brett both, and sounds almost surprised. Then he says:  
“I need to go outside.” 

Brett nods way before Eddy looks at him; the room is ringing with something bigger than they’re both combined. They spare themselves of putting away the filming equipment and even choosing where to go this time; just get changed and go out, to the world that doesn’t know what they did yet – not the majority of it.

When they’re on the doorstep, Brett bends down and fumbles with his shoelaces, thinking hard; he knows what Eddy’s up to all too well. Sibelius has this power over him, to take him to the higher realms, the place above the clouds, the land of gelid lakes and glacial peaks, the one he knows by heart and that is so hard to leave behind. 

And so when he’s too high up to see anything else, it’s Brett’s job, now - to guide him back, without making Eddy feel like he betrays something that is a part of him, to ground Eddy without making him feel restrained. For all the things that Eddy’s made of, this one is the trickiest, and Brett takes pride in being the only one who knows this about him.  
He allows himself a couple more seconds before Eddy senses his intent; then he straightens up and kisses his lips, and it’s short and strong and sweet. 

Not to snap him out of it, but to go for him and take him back; that’s what Brett’s here for, every time. 

Eddy tenses up for a second; then closes his eyes, letting himself be kissed, and his shoulders drop down, he’s here now, in the present moment, with that halcyon face of his that he can’t ever pull off on purpose; and Brett can’t help but exhale against his lips with just the softest hint of relief.

“You did so good,” he murmurs, and this time it sounds better, and the dawn of acceptance lights up Eddy’s features. They’re going to be outside for a while, so Brett kisses him more, stocking up on the way Eddy feels; they hold on to each other, till Brett bangs his elbow against the wall and yelps, and Eddy steps on Brett’s shoelaces, still untied, and they both swear, almost in unison. Then everything feels – almost – the way it used to be. 

They’re home again way later than they wanted to be, and all this time Brett watches him closely. He catalogues every thought that runs through Eddy’s creased eyebrows, every single one that means he’s recalling and recollecting and replaying the entire performance in his head countless times. He doesn’t look discouraged, and that’s something to be proud of, but Brett’s going to try and keep Eddy away from rewatching the thing for at least a week, not while he’s so prone to falling down the deep pit of being overly self-conscious. What Eddy really needs now is some distraction, and self-control, and a certain mindset to hold on to for a while. Also maybe – just maybe – some more praise. Just as a reminder. 

So Brett finishes checking the team’s emails, leaves his laptop on the windowsill, makes his bed – neatly and thoroughly; and when he turns the door handle and opens the door, he’s immediately wrapped in arms warm and steady. 

“Hello,” Eddy breathes out like they didn't play smash bros half an hour ago together, sprawled on a couch in their living space; before Brett even gets to say something, Eddy leans in and covers Brett's mouth with his, while his arms are lurking on Brett’s back. 

He’s bold and demanding, and tastes like lip balm and decisions already made; his arms find the way under Brett’s pajamas quickly, softly brushing his sides and sliding up, the radiating warmth spreads from every place where Eddy touches him. The more impatient and haste he is, the calmer Brett feels; so Eddy thought the same, after all. So he went for him, just when Brett was about to go for him as well. That’s the type of routine that never becomes dull; he’s used to them being synchronized, now, but every time it happens again, Brett feels like he won Eddy for himself one more time. Maybe, that’s what he needs to do. They always just sort of had each other. 

Eddy’s arms envelop him, and Brett shudders because Eddy kisses him deeper, and slower now; and this is one more thing that makes Brett’s heart do a backflip: Eddy’s way too good at catching on to what Brett wants, every time.  
And even if he doesn’t, so what; they can always talk.

Eddy sighs against his lips, softly, and _I’m lucky_ is the only thing that Brett can think of.  
Out loud, he says, breathless:  
“Your room. And give me your t-shirt.”

Eddy’s bed is a mess, and everything in his room seems bigger - maybe because Brett is lying on his back and Eddy’s hanging over him, warping his sense of perspective. Eddy’s not a fan of bright lit spaces, so the main light in his room is only on when he practices; right now there’s a lamp on a table and another one on the bedstand; it’s cat-shaped, and it changes colors, slowly. Eddy’s t-shirt is on Brett, so he watches Eddy’s bare skin lit with the translucent pink, then purple, then warm orange. 

Brett touches him, and his fingers bask in ever-changing colors. “You’re glowing,” he says quietly, and that’s only half of what he thinks. “You did really well today, you know?”

Eddy snickers, and it’s obvious he keeps the second part of his answer to himself as well because the next thing he does is sliding his palms over Bret’s thighs, and wrapping one around his ankle, lifting it to rest on his shoulder. He brushes his lips over the prominent bone while drawing closer, and with every second passing, all the places where they touch feel less of a tickle, more of an unexplainably pleasurable glide against each other. When both of Brett’s ankles are high up, Eddy looks him in the eyes, and his are full of light and things he wants to do and say, but the only one he lets out is: 

“Think you can stay like this for a while?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Brett exhales, and he’s not so sure, actually, but Eddy holds him down, and his hands are warm and offer so much that Brett would agree to anything if it means Eddy’s not going to stop, or to let him go; the air between them heats up too quickly. “Just, dunno, don’t snap my back or something.” He lifts himself on the elbows and fumbles with the t-shirt for a while; one of Eddy’s hands comes to help him. 

“This has to go, too,” Eddy whispers, tugging on his underwear, and the ever-changing light softens every feature of his face, and for a long second Brett feels like he’s eighteen again and they’re at that goddamn party, in a guest room that is barely bigger than a closet; and so Brett closes his eyes and lets Eddy undress him, just like back then. Right now, Brett wants it way more than stealing Eddy’s clothes. 

Eddy drags him closer, his arms holding Brett’s thighs firmly; then he leans in, and the next thing Brett feels, he’s spread wider than ever, Eddy’s cock is aligned with his ass perfectly, and they are skin to skin, kissing; Eddy groans in his mouth, and presses on Brett with all his weight, his eyes are wide open and unfocused. Brett breathes out his name, and it’s the last thing he has air in his lungs for; Eddy seems to understand him well because he sits down and lets go of Brett; he somehow manages to look surprised while pouring lube down his fingers. 

“Hands to yourself, babe,” he says in a low voice, and this small term of endearment comes at Brett like a wave, swallowing him whole; the last time Eddy called him that was way, way too long ago, and Brett thought they were way past it. Why do you say things if you already mean it with your every touch? Now, it almost makes Brett whimper. 

Eddy reaches to push his knees apart but doesn’t touch him, and the feeling when Eddy’s slick fingers brush down his inner thigh is both irritating and pleasant, like tiny sparkles running down his nerves. The touch that follows is careful, cool, and slippery, and quickly becomes warm, slow circles; Brett melts into the pillows, aching to be touched, with a mouth dry and his chest going up and down from his breath, quick and short. The one distracting got distracted himself; with eyes half-lidded, he looks at Eddy – a concentrated face, like Brett is the piece he has to sight-read for the first time, a drop of sweat trickling down his chest, a hand lying on Brett’s hip, grounding him. 

“How do you feel?” Eddy asks him, seemingly calm, but Brett sees the wrinkle between his eyebrows forming, and it’s very much the same Eddy that just played a piece that means the world to him in front of an audience bigger than ever. “Everything’s fine?”

Brett nods furiously and feels Eddy’s finger sliding inside, the slow stretch is maddeningly, excruciatingly pleasant; Brett arches with all his body to meet this feeling. When Brett is the one taking the lead, Eddy lets him do whatever he wants, and encourages him for more, asking, begging, giving him signs; now, Brett doesn’t want Eddy to do it right from the first attempt, doesn’t want to let this mood, settled in from the morning, rob him of his lover. Brett’s not a damn piece, after all; and this is one more thing he needs to remind Eddy, from time to time.

And so Brett drags Eddy by the wrist, making him lean in; he props his knees up and moves his hips forward to meet Eddy’s fingers, two now, working him open, and demands against his open mouth, choking on his moan:

“What do you think about?”

Eddy breathes into his lips instead of answering; the movement of his fingers enkindling Brett, making his cock drip. “How to make it good for you,” he murmurs, at last, and straightens up, giving Brett a quick squeeze, and here they are, again; Brett simultaneously wants to praise him and read the whole fucking lecture about how he should make it good for both of them; but then Eddy wraps his cock with that big warm hand of his, and brushes over a tip with a thumb; he’s picking up the pace, now, and it feels excruciatingly good. 

There are three fingers in him, now, and Eddy draws a whole melody out of him – a moan that Brett fails to bit down, a quiet but distinct wet sound of Eddy’s fingers stretching Brett further, a ragged breath that gets stuck in his throat. Eddy thoroughly enjoys Brett’s reaction for a while, before dragging his fingers away; then he puts his ankles back on his shoulders, and his fingers are slick, unable to grasp Brett as surely as he did before. _It’s alright, gonna hold on, just_ – “Ohhhhhh, fuck”, Eddy’s raspy voice cuts the semi-darkness of the room, when he thrusts in, slowly; and he’s hot, hot, _hot_ , scalding almost; one of Eddy’s hands slides down and takes its rightful place on Brett’s cock. There’s just the right amount of stretch and squeeze, borderline painful but with that kind of pain that makes Brett cry out and move towards Eddy to take it, take _all_ of it.

“Eddy,” he groans, and his name alone makes his cock twitch inside Brett. “Say something, _please_ , talk to me.”

A wet _slap_ , and a hand failing to move in rhythm, and another one, grasping Brett and holding him close, and a face, struck by the pleasure; Eddy licks his lips, and closes his eyes, and breathes out:

“I love you,” and it’s the same face Brett has seen today already, but can’t pinpoint exactly when; then he feels Eddy gripping him harder, and sees him leaning in; and if Eddy Chen is a romantic disaster who loves to kiss and fuck at the same time, Brett’s going to give him just that. He’s so deep inside, he’s everywhere around Brett, there’s no more pain in the strained back or a pulsating dryness of his mouth, only Eddy, holding him close, filling him to the brim. 

In the overheated air of Eddy’s room, they kiss as long as they can; Eddy lowers his head and sucks on Brett’s neck, making him hiss and shiver; they’re going to rack their brains trying to cover it up tomorrow, but now Brett wants to be fucking ornated with these, so he buries fingers in Eddy’s wet hair and presses down, not letting him move away; and Eddy covers him with an abundance of quickly reddening spots, all over Brett’s neck. 

So, he’s being fucked into the bed senselessly, drenched in sweat, and his neck is going to be all shades of red and purple tomorrow; might as well invest into being completely fucked up; and so Brett grips Eddy’s hair in his fist, making him moan and throw his head back, looking in Eddy’s face, his mouth, distorted in pleasure, and eyes squinted, and says in a hoarse voice quickly, slurring over every other word:

“Come inside, no spills,” and even in the pure white fucking bliss written all over his face, Eddy Chen, damn him, finds the will to rasp out:

“A mess... mmmmmfff... to clean up...”

“Fuck it, _please_ ,” there’s not a single word existing in Brett’s head to tell Eddy how much he needs this, how much he wants to be drenched in his cum and having it dripping out when Eddy’s done with him, so he just clenches around him, and crosses his ankles behind Eddy’s neck; _just don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t_ , he chants in his mind.

Eddy’s face is over him, and it’s that expression again, lovestruck and full of inner force, unexplainable and endless; he howls, almost, and smashes their mouths, hard; and the very feeling of hot splash inside of him, filling him and spreading like a wildfire is enough to send Brett over the edge as well; he cries out in Eddy’s mouth, sounding muffled, while Eddy strokes him, fast and rough, and spills out all over his chest; his orgasm feels like an earthquake or a bolt of lightning, hitting him through the body. 

He shivers, and sobs, and limps down; Eddy’s hands are all around him, and when Brett opens his eyes again, he suddenly knows his face by heart: Sibelius has this power over him, to take him to the higher realms, and to feel love of an unexplainable power.

But so does Brett.


End file.
